


To never hear your voice again

by christinesangel100



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M, Soulmate AU, character death is canon, the last words your soulmate says to you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-09-20 17:43:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9502850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/christinesangel100/pseuds/christinesangel100
Summary: When you turn 18, you get a tattoo of the last words your soulmate will ever say to you. Grantaire isn't surprised at his.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by tumblr post http://patroghost.co.vu/post/85363454231/what-if-your-soulmate-au-tattoo-was-the-last-thing

Grantaire had been curious about his future soulmate tattoo as a child. He knew it appeared once you were grown, and it told you about who you’d fall in love with. He used to imagine who that person might be. 

Of course, as he grew older, he realised that it wasn’t something to help you find them. All a soulmate tattoo did was let you know when you were about to lose them, when you were about to lose the person who was made to match your soul. 

On his birthday, he drank. He was cynical, and drunk, and what chance did a man like he have of finding his soulmate before he was to lose them? No one would wish to be with him – a fool, an artist, a cynic, a man who believed in nothing.   
He didn’t look at the words until the next day. When he did, he almost laughed. Hadn’t that been exactly what he’d expected? The last words his soulmate would say to him – and they were clearly negative. 

It did nothing to heal his heart, hurt too many times. His anger at the world, his knowledge that nothing could be done to change it. Yes, he wished for change. Yet he knew that it would never come.   
The years went on, and Grantaire studied art. He’d always enjoyed it, the feeling of creating things. But much of the art he studied was inspired by soulmate tattoos. His words were not full of love, or fondness. They were a sign that he could never change, would never change. He would never be a better person. What use was there in trying? If his soulmate, whenever he was to meet them, would not care for him, what was the point? The last words his soulmate had to say were to call him incapable of anything. He couldn’t forget it. The lines were imprinted on his skin, and nothing could scrub them away. 

He met Bossuet and Joly one night at a bar, when he was drinking. He made a speech, something about the appearance of the walls when you were unable to see straight due to alcohol, and they joined him in drink. Somehow, they had become friends, after a night together in drunken revelry. They spent hours together, laughing and talking, joining each other in seeing the humour in the world around them  
It wasn’t long before the two asked him to attend a meeting for their group.  
“We fight for change!” They insisted. “We are planning a revolution!” 

He told them it would not succeed. Nothing could change France from what it had become, from what it had always been. After all, had they not tried revolution before? It had got them nowhere. An emperor, and then another king, after working so hard to dispose of the last one.   
Nevertheless, he was curious. He did not believe, but he wanted to. 

He attended the meeting. It became clear, almost immediately, that he was not the type of person who fit among the usual attendees, and yet most of them accepted him with good grace, allowing him to drink what he wished each night and sit in peace among them. His friendship group expanded, despite his disbelief. Jean Prouvaire read him poetry, both written by themselves and by others. Bossuet exchanged puns, Bahorel challenged him to boxing matches. Feuilly spoke to him of art, and he responded, enthused by the new conversations. He found himself lucky that he had always been good at finding friends, cynical though he was.   
It was his friends that made him feel wanted there, despite his lack of contributions. It was their Leader who made him want to stay. 

The leader of the group was like a statue; a piece of art no mortal hand could make. He looked as though some being had carved him, every part perfectly aligned and displayed. His hair, long and flowing, he wore tied back with a ribbon. He reminded Grantaire of the heroes of Greek legends, the strong and powerful Achilles, immortal and unable to be defeated. 

Yet even Achilles had a weakness, and Grantaire could not believe that Enjolras did not have one too. His belief, Grantaire thought, would kill him. His talk of revolution, of fighting those in power, of attempting change – that was his weakness, his belief in a better world that would not come. 

Even so, his speech held power. When Enjolras spoke, Grantaire wished that he too believed in the future the others saw, a future where all were equal and free. Where none were turned away or faced with fear or hunger simply due to their position in society. Where society would not judge them, or harm them.   
Enjolras dreamt of a future filled with love, with respect for every man and woman. He believed in a world where all would be equal. 

Perhaps such a world could come one day, but Grantaire did not believe it would be soon. With every new member agreeing to revolt with them, he saw another hopeful fool sentenced to death. And he returned to his bottle, drowning himself in drink, and arguing with Enjolras about the cause they planned to fight for. 

It did nothing. Enjolras would never be dissuaded, he could see. Yet in Enjolras there was a light that Grantaire had always wished to see in himself.   
He couldn’t tear himself away from the man, even when looked on with disgust. It was clear Enjolras only wished to convince him, too, to believe. He wished to make a cynic believe in their dream.   
For Enjolras, Grantaire almost tried. He volunteered to help – to visit the Barriere du Maine, to speak to those there who might join their cause. 

Once he arrived there, he found it a more daunting task than he’d expected. His friends, who believed in the cause, were not nearby, and his imitations of Enjolras were not convincing when his disbelief was so clear to see. It didn’t take long before another man had persuaded him to take a break from his attempted recruitment, and relax with some wine and a game of dominoes.   
He had forgotten about the recruitment, after that. There would be no supporters brought to the group by him. 

The months passed, and the group spoke of a catalyst, of something that would spark the people of Paris into supporting them in their fight. They planned the revolution with no set date, where they would place the barricades outside the Corinthe, and how they would prepare weapons and defences against the National Guard.   
Enjolras met Grantaire’s comments with disdain, but that was to be expected. After all, that was how he had always looked at Grantaire. 

The date was still unset.   
Then came Lamarque’s death. Before he’d even seen them, Grantaire knew this would be the spark Enjolras chose to ignite the revolution. General Lamarque had been the best chance they had for the changes Enjolras wanted. With him dead, and the people of Paris grieving, it was the most likely time to persuade the public to join them in revolt. He did not need to attend the meeting that night to hear it. 

It would happen on the day of the funeral, he was told. They would take charge at the procession, and people would follow them. They would break away and form the barricades, defending the streets of Paris and fighting the National Guard. Change would come. 

Grantaire found himself drinking yet more as the days came nearer. He wasn’t sure if he would attend the barricade, yet he felt himself drawn to it. His friends would all be there. His friends could all die there. He could not leave them. He spent days in the Corinthe, spending what money he had on bottles of wine to drink away his thoughts. 

On the 5th June, that was where he was. Bossuet and Joly joined him, and they conversed, speaking of various topics. It was the day of the funeral, and Grantaire had two full bottles of wine to drink. He did not plan to be sober when the battle came. After spending so much of his life dedicated to the pursuit of drinking, it would seem disloyal to greet death without having done so to the best of his ability.

They did not have to go to find the revolution, when it happened. The revolution came to them as planned, setting up in the streets by the Corinthe, with Matelote and Gibelotte joining with the workers, assisting in the building of the barricade across the streets. 

Madame Houcheloup had joined them on the first floor of the wineshop, terrified. She had not wanted her shop to become a battleground, and yet it had been chosen for the task regardless. Grantaire wondered if Madame Houcheloup and her workers would be shot with them, when the Guard came. He hoped they would be able to escape the carnage to come. Whichever side was successful, there were sure to be a lot of deaths. 

Attempting to distract himself, he took hold of Matelote, returning from the ground to where they had been sat drinking. He spoke of her homeliness, and how well both she and Madame Houcheloup would fight. He was not himself sure if he meant the words to be mocking or encouraging. 

“Hold your tongue, you casque!” Courfeyrac scolded him.   
Grantaire was quick to retort. “I am the capitoul and the master of the floral games!”   
Enjolras raised his head, looking towards them from where he was standing at the barricade.   
“Grantaire,” he shouted, “go get rid of the fumes of your wine somewhere else than here. This is the place for enthusiasm, not for drunkenness. Don’t disgrace the barricade!” 

Grantaire watched him, feeling suddenly more sober than he had been. The anger in his voice was clear enough for all to hear. It was plain to see that the man hated him, and yet Grantaire had never been able to hate Enjolras. Not even now, when both stood behind a barricade that was unlikely to keep them from dying. 

He sat down at a table, resting his elbows upon it, feeling suddenly tired. He looked at Enjolras. The man would never understand how Grantaire felt towards him. How could he? Yet for a while now, Grantaire had suspected who was most likely to say the hateful words on his arm. A man who hated him, yet he found himself unable to turn from. A man he cared for, despite everything.   
He did not want to hear the words, whether they came from Enjolras or not. Cynic though he was, Grantaire wanted to believe they would succeed. 

His eyes met Enjolras’ with tenderness.   
“Let me sleep here.” He said softly.   
“Go and sleep somewhere else!” Enjolras responded, glaring towards him. Enjolras had spoken of the need for as many people as possible at the barricade, yet even so, he did not want Grantaire to stay.   
Grantaire kept his eyes fixed on Enjolras. “Let me sleep here, until I die.”   
Enjolras stared at him, eyes full of the disdain Grantaire had come to expect.   
“Grantaire, you are incapable of believing, of thinking, of willing, of living, and of dying.”   
Grantaire winced at the words. As always, he had been wrong to hope. His voice was grave as he replied.   
“You will see.” 

He did not mean to let Enjolras die without him, whether or not the man knew. Grantaire stammered for a moment, trying to say something, anything, that may change things, but it was a fool’s quest, and all that escaped him was unintelligible. He closed his eyes instead, letting his head fall onto the table.   
They were both to die, and Grantaire would never hear Enjolras speak again. The man would never know he was his soulmate.   
Grantaire slept, doubting he would ever wake up. No doubt a stray bullet would find him before the end of the battle.

 

When he woke, most was quiet. When he had fallen asleep there had been noise everywhere, of the fighters setting up and preparing for their war.   
Now there was nothing. He lifted his head, dreading what he would see.   
The room was near destroyed. There was blood around him, utter devastation. He rose quickly, stretched – and realised. The battle was over – the battle was lost. 

And before him stood soldiers. Soldiers, with their weapons aimed at a man as beautiful as he was brave, as passionate as he was determined. They did not see him, risen from his sleep. They had not noticed the drunk in the corner.   
Enjolras stood, facing the weapons alone. He was staring them down even as he waited to die, his cockade still pinned to him. 

 

Grantaire stepped forward. He was not certain what he meant to do until the words left his mouth.   
“Long live the republic! I’m one of them.” He called.   
He looked once more at the group, the soldiers responding to his voice. He spoke again.   
“Long live the republic!” 

He moved across the room, stepping over fallen debris and wreckage to reach Enjolras. He stood beside the man he loved, facing the guns with him.   
“Finish both of us at one blow.” He said.   
He turned then to Enjolras, voice gentler now. He had made this decision without Enjolras agreeing, but he couldn’t let his soulmate die alone. 

“Do you permit it?” He asked, meeting his eyes. He saw a look of amazement in the other man’s eyes. They widened, and Grantaire realised at once. He had been a fool to speak – his words would be printed on Enjolras’ arm, too. The man knew now. He was no doubt disappointed.  
There was no escape for either of them now, and Enjolras would not be comforted by the knowledge that a drunken cynic was his soulmate, Grantaire was sure. 

Enjolras did not hesitate, however. He reached out, pressing their hands together with a smile.   
Grantaire felt himself begin to smile back as his soulmate accepted him.   
The shots rang out.


End file.
